The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (19 page)

A new box of aspirin. Yazdi smiled. He picked it up, examined it.

There was a price tag on it. And an expiration date.

And the name of a shop. It was not from any of the streets he had noticed and remembered around the university. With the box in hand, Yazdi ran down to his car and texted his office asking for the address of the dispensary.

Then, as he sat in his car waiting for the information, he saw something that would need attention.

 

 

“I am not going to be able to finish the work in this fashion.”

Boulif’s statement caused Mohammed’s spirits to sink. The professor removed his hands from the gloves and sank on the stool. Mohammed, who had been standing beside him, looked at the scientist’s grave expression.

“What is the problem?”

“Room,” Boulif said. “There isn’t enough room to maneuver inside the box.”

“Is there somewhere else we can take the box?”

“Not locally,” Boulif said. “There is a facility in Libya—but I do not know who currently controls it.”

“Then what can we do?”

Boulif considered the problem. “You see this box here?” He pointed to an object between the large and small balls of plutonium that were designed to fuel the explosion. It was a squat H-shaped object. “Initially, I believe clamps were going to be connected to the four prongs. They would, in turn, have been attached to a device that was the key to the bomb’s operation: a smaller explosive that would start the chain reaction without destroying the plutonium container. The German scientists were looking for some kind of box that would house the initial explosion. We can do that now, of course, with remote detonators and a small explosive charge placed directly inside the box.”

“You mean like nitroglycerin?”

“That is too unstable,” he said. “A small block of a plastic bonded explosive, so-called C-4, would achieve the desired result. It would break the container but it would not impact the plutonium before fission occurred.”

“Do you have that?”

“Easy to make,” he said. “The problem, as I said, is installing the workings.”

For the first time Mohammed became aware of the sounds around him. The traffic in the street. The occasional low-flying airplane. His own breathing.

“Can I do it?” Mohammed asked. “If you remove the lid—can you tell me what to do?”

“You are an honor to the faith, but you will not have the time. This level of radiation will weaken you within minutes. You will die before you are finished.”

“Even with this?” he asked, picking up the X-ray apron.

“Even with that,” Boulif told him. He snickered. “It is the problem we have always faced. Men of courage, men of conviction, men with knowledge. The righteousness of our cause. Yet physical limitations so often stymie us. Obtaining raw materials. Transporting them.”

“Can we not use this as a dirty bomb? Blow up the container and simply disperse the radiation?”

“We can, but I am not yet willing to go that route,” Boulif said. “The destructive power of a nuclear bomb, even a low-megaton-yield device as this one, will devastate an entire metropolis, kill and sicken millions, instead of irradiating a few blocks and affecting one-tenth that number of nonbelievers. Why poison a part of Washington or Tel Aviv when you can erase it from the map?”

“You mean, like the bombs in Japan?”

“Exactly so. A way must be found for you to transport this to the enemy’s beating heart and cause it to go still.” Boulif looked around with growing excitement. “It is possible. It
is
possible.”

“What is, professor?”

“We needn’t use the original wiring,” he said. “We
shouldn’t
. We don’t know anything about the integrity of the circuits inside. And . . .”

Boulif’s voice trailed off as he went to a cabinet stocked with powdered chemicals. He selected potassium nitrate, sulfur, and carbon that had been extracted from shaved graphite. He shook the bottles to free the particles from inevitable bonding due to condensation. He brought the vials to the table and took a set of kitchen measuring spoons from a drawer. There was a box of oatmeal near the sink. He filled a glass with hot water and brought it and the oatmeal to the table. He stirred the oatmeal into the water and let it sit. Then he removed his cell phone from his pocket and snapped off the back. He opened a wooden drawer in the table and drew out a small package. He pierced the back with a long fingernail, removed one of two cadmium batteries, placed it inside the phone. He got another phone from the drawer and did the same thing. He gave Mohammed the first phone.

“This battery will run for one hundred hours,” Boulif said. “That’s four days. Do not turn it off.”

“Why?”

“There are reasons,” he said. Boulif wrote down the number of the phone from the drawer. “Memorize this and then destroy it. The success of this mission depends on it. “

“I understand,” Mohammed said gravely. He understood what Boulif was doing—the second phone would eventually go inside the device. It was the detonator. The phone he held was what activated it.

“Do not program the number of the detonator into the other phone,” Boulif warned. “If you dial it by accident, the detonator will explode. Powerfully. Do not drop it and try not to fall on it. There is nitroglycerin in this mixture. It will explode. Powerfully. In either event, you will probably die without accomplishing your goal.”

The thought amused Mohammed. His brother had often called him from the market or from his girlfriend’s home without meaning to. He had heard many conversations that were not intended for his ears.

Boulif slipped his hands in the gloves and closed the container. He secured the latches on the side, then told Mohammed to remove the lid of the Soviet box. He watched the Geiger counter as Mohammed lifted the lead top. The radiation leak was the same as before: nominal. The Germans had built a box that exceeded all expectations. Boulif helped lift the lead container and set it on the table. He stirred the oatmeal until it was a thick paste, then went and got a pair of flexible metal bands from a drawer. He began to attach them to the lead box, like they were ribbons on a gift. Mohammed helped him by lifting the container so the professor could slip them underneath.

“These are shipping bands,” he said. “They will secure the lid, make sure there is no leakage. You release them by popping the latches like so.”

He demonstrated how the small, seatbelt-style locks worked.

“You seem to have everything we need,” Mohammed marveled. “It is as if God prepared you!”

Boulif smiled. “God . . . and years of shipping explosives that I could not have jiggling around a container.” He returned to the oatmeal. “And this is how I will turn the cell phone into an IED. I’ll mix the chemicals into the oatmeal and apply a coating to the inside of the cell phone, both the workings and the lid. When you call, it will create a small explosion, like a hand grenade.”

“But how will that penetrate—” Mohammed stopped as he understood. “I will remove the lid and place it inside. Then I will call the number.”

Boulif nodded soberly.

“Blessed be God,” Mohammed said. “I will be the direct instrument of his vengeance.” He studied the scientist’s actions. “Will we need so much?” he asked, indicating the mixture.

“Not for the bomb, no. It is for other things. Get me the backpack on the hook behind the door.”

Mohammed did as he was told.

“There is a cell phone inside, wired with open ends to the bag,” he said.

“Open ends?”

“Live wires. They’ll generate a short, hot spark and when I’m finished that will complete a circuit five seconds after you punch 911. Can you remember that?”

“Of course.” Mohammed watched him work. “You have a great many cell phones, professor.”

“I give a great many lessons here,” Boulif replied. “Now—we must also figure out where you will go and how you can get there. I have some thoughts.” He looked at his watch. He suddenly seemed concerned, as if he’d remembered a missed appointment. “How was the man in the shack when you left him?”

“Sir?”

“His mood. His manner.”

Mohammed thought for a moment. “He seemed all right—I don’t understand.”

“He should have called to tell me you were coming,” Boulif said. “The man you killed couldn’t have been the only one who knew,” he thought aloud. “We must move quickly. We need to get this, and you, out of here. There is something you must do first. Number one,” he added, referring to the countdown he’d mentioned a moment ago.

“Gladly.”

As the scientist went to work mixing the explosive, Mohammed experienced a strange detachment from his activity and from life itself. He was overcome with an immediate sensation of rapture and relief.

Your time in this life will end very soon
, he thought.
Paradise awaits and in it a reunion with your brothers.

All he had to do was transport this weapon to a suitable goal. Then he, his name, and his deed would be enshrined forever among those of the great martyrs. Tears of joy filled the edges of his eyes as he watched this great man at work.

God—and life—were great.